Or so, I’m told. So I see in others.

I myself couldn’t say.

Then there’s sex. Linked, you would expect, to love. Yet, I don’t see the connection either. No, sex without love is not only possible, I would say it was standard. I’ve never loved any of the people I’ve slept with.

That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Unimaginable and selfish from someone who doesn’t deserve the happiness he claims to lack. Oh yes, I’m selfish because I don’t appreciate what I have. What I have is what so many would wish for in their dreams. How dare I belittle my lot like a spoilt child. Do I not have a beautiful woman by my side, in my bed? Granted, to many she has little beauty in the classical vein, but to many more she is undoubtedly eye-catching, a prize catch for any man. Then there is my son, cause enough for my eyes to light up in pride and delight at the mere mention of his name. A proud dad, a doting father, a loving husband.

It would come to a surprise to anyone if they saw the truth. Had the uneasy truth revealed once the rose-tinted spectacles are removed.

Shock would become disdain, melting into disappointment. How could I be so selfish not to appreciate my life?

Well, that’s what I think would be the reaction, what I know would be the reaction after seeing it in the only person who knows this guilty secret of mine and several of the other skeletons I hide. Why I am about to tell the only person I love, the only person I can love, the troubles that will inevitably drive them away from me I don’t know. The fact is that I can already see the sorrow in your emerald eyes every time you look at me, the slightly pitying tinge in your expression.. Probably a good dose of shame in there as well, that I can so willingly play this charade and how I do it so carefully. I hate the knowledge that you might return to your happy family, see the loving expression of your wonderful wife’s face, the grins of bliss on your content children’s faces, and you think of me and my games. Do you wonder, like I do every night? Wonder how I can play the loving husband when I know deep down that I am not what I pretend to be? Wonder how I can’t fulfil this role when you see the happiness you enjoy in the same position. It is as if every time you look at me you see a pale imitation of your life. All the disappointments that you could have had are mirrored in me, making you uncomfortable when you see me.

So, I’m a failure. I don’t, I can’t love my wife. I lie beside her as she sleeps soundless, completely unaware that everything she believes is an elaborate falsehood. No, actually scratch that. I do know she knows, yet she plays her part in this charade as willingly as I. It begs the question does she really love me anyway? The answer would have to be no. Not when I don’t love her in return, so how can I criticise her if she chose security and a promising life with someone more akin to a friend or a brother than to chose for herself a man who, after the initial fireworks and roses, might turn out to be not all that he seems.

For those reasons, it is impossible to hate her for how our relationship is heading. To the contrary, I see how wonderful she is. In one breath, she is warm comfort, someone to talk to when silent drives me into depression. In another, she reminds me all the more that I don’t love her and she must see the guilt so evident in my eyes. It’s the old cliché: it’s not her, it’s me. My problem. That’s why I have never objected to her seeking out love in other avenues. If I can’t love her then I can’t condemn her for looking elsewhere for it.

So long as she’s happy. I don’t mind. Why doom her to an unhappy existence just because I can’t find peace?

And it would be hypocritical of me to object, not when I think of my own promiscuity in search for an ounce of happiness which is far less discrete than hers. Even my current lover doesn’t make me happy with myself. I may wake up to my wife’s peaceful sleeping features back home. But race weekends, my team mate provides me with company. And no, I don’t love him either. At least there’s less of the guilt with him though. I’m not expected to love him and I know what he feels for me is more lust and the strange friendship we seem to have is nothing more than that. But he cares now, I can tell in the way languid lips take mine and arms envelop me in a tired post-coital embrace, and for a few moments I can pretend I feel for him in the way I’m desperate to feel for someone. Sometimes I’m so convincing that I hope it might someday become real. The mistakes I made before, I promised myself that I wouldn’t succumb to base desire with him once I figured out his intentions, that I would force myself to love him before I gave my body in the meaningless and seedy gestures I’ve been guilty of in the past. Yet, I am intrinsically weak and my vows faded away until I was in his arms, begging him to do to me what so many others have. Because this is what I know, what I like and what I need. If I can’t have love then I’ll chase pleasure and hope for the former. Yet, pleasure reminds me of the past and so scuppers the chance of love through its negativity. And while that remains, I don’t believe I shall ever be in love.

He is better for me though, I think, or at least I hope. So too is my wife because at least I know she feels for me as a person and that I have her respect. Though I doubt it is much to do with gaining more self-respect than the fear of losing more of what little I have, and even I am not so stupid as to tell her exactly what she has married. My first season was a revelation. Having the lustful attention of men, women and even fellow drivers after years of relative inattention. You would have thought this would have been enough to kerb my insecurities, yet it proved quite the opposite. I tried and tasted many of the fruits in the pit lane, but all hollow pleasures. The cooing in my ears, false compliments, all as fake as the emotions I persuaded myself I felt about myself and my lovers. I look back in disgust at myself for being so easy. Don’t put it down to manipulation, naïveté or that I was simply taken advantage of by the hungry vultures of the paddock. No, I knew what I was doing and I instigated and encouraged those who stalked around looking for new pleasures. Anything they asked for, I so readily provided. Such a willing little whore, all for half-hearted declarations of love that I didn’t believe in but depended on for the sake of confidence. And I excelled in my vocation, they would come back and demand more and I would play whatever role they asked. Most wanted to dominant a virginal-looking blue-eyed creature, some liked a struggle from me, whether as a willing or unwilling partner. Others just plain unmoving obedience and gratitude or for me to be the experienced little whore of their fantasies. I had a very varied repertoire, pleasing for so many.

It had to stop though, I knew it. I stopped when I couldn’t even look at my reflection without feeling disgusted and the more extreme ways to attain a pleasure to numb the pain were being overwhelmed by loathing, though not until most of the paddock had their turn. Moreover, I couldn’t bear your disapproval, the one person whose love and opinions mattered to me, so I kept my distance from the greedy pack, unable to trust myself not to fall for their false adorations any longer. Especially when those jackels that prey on the readily manipulated held positions of power that left me so open to their exploitations and I could no longer play such a dangerous game for fear of their betrayal. One careless comment, one well placed remark from a vindictive tongue and you could have found me out for what I was, what I am, and the hurt that would have caused you was not worth the moments of fleeting pleasure I could find in the most ruthless of hands. Yet, this pearl of wisdom came too late to save me. My own fault for involving myself with your team-mate, for being so confident in my duplicity that you would never need know, certain the more I offered him the more I could keep his silence and then naïve enough to think that if I called it off he would graciously accept it.

Of course he didn’t. Who would willingly give up their personal little fuck-toy just because it discovers its conscience? He pestered me, sought to drag me out of my enforced celebacy by playing to my sense of vanity with drunking croonings in a dimly lit bar that I was beautiful and gagging for it so why did I persist in refusing. And then the threat of revelation. It was an easy decision to make in the end, offering my body to him again if it meant the sordid truth could remain concealed from you, and he took full advantage of my predicment, making me live up to the names of harlot and slut growled at me as he fucked me and I screamed in approval. Because I may detest myself for doing this but it does not mean that there is not a twisted part of me that revels in this.

Then he betrayed me, not so unexpectedly. Nothing so crude as a photograph, that’s not his style. No, his punishment was sweeter and more venomous. More personal. Barely minutes had passed after my cries of orgasm filled the room when he pulled me off the bed, throwing at me my discarded jeans before dragging me half-dressed to your hotel room and banging loudly on the door until you opened it, your expression one of surprise when he barged in. He snickered as he pushed me to the floor and told me to tell you not just what I had just done but to show you exactly what I am. Kneeling behind me with a hand on my naked shoulder and the other running through my damp ruffled hair, bringing light to ugly marks of possession from an eager mouth so clear on pale skin. And when the words dried up through the shame of my actions, the delight he took in bringing out into the open my skeletons brought tears to my eyes and I couldn’t bring myself to meet your gaze for fear of the disgust I thought I would see there. There I knelt, surrounded by my degraded history and utterly undeserving of your reaction when I heard your voice, calm and forgiving. You never out-rightly condemned my behaviour even though I know the hurt I caused you by my lies. Your calmness surprised both he and I, how you had to put up with his mocking slurring when you asked him quietly to leave and he refused. I heard the angry tremor in his voice, trying to rile you up when his revelations failed to provoke the reaction he desired, but in the end he gave up and left when you were obviously no sport for his games.

He did give me one mercy though. He didn’t tell you everything. Oh, he hinted that perhaps he was not the only one to whom I provided such a service, but I think the force of my ashamed weeping hit at whatever constitutes his conscience and he refrained from spilling the vulgar facts of my past few years. He of all people could have named five or six of my offhand lovers, if you can call them that, in the months before my enforced celibacy. He’s a bastard, but I don’t think cruelty comes naturally to him and he kept my dirty secrets for me, content that this was enough of a payback. His quarrel was with you, not me. Yet, there was a part of me that wished he had, for the sake of my conscious to get all this off my chest. You would have known and it would have been more, I don’t know, more simple. No more deceit.

Alone now, I thought this was when disapproval would become anger. What I was expecting from you was not for you to take my hand, lifting me off the floor and keeping an uninquisitive silence as I poured out tears of shame and sorrow in your arms. You were so understanding, it made it worse. I wanted, no, needed, you to be angry with me, to show revulsion. Not love, I didn’t deserve it and my guilt was more painful than anything I have ever felt in my life. You only made one demand: for me not to tell you who else I had been with and what else I had done.

I could have left it there, admit to my mistakes and repent in your arms. The only one not to judge, yet still I couldn’t stop myself, my pride wounded but still too stubborn to let you think so ill of me and I could not bare you to think me such a simple slut so I said I loved him and he betrayed me, to distract your disappointment and fuel a fury against him. Another lie and through my tears the promises that Eddie was my only failing must have held some credibility because you looked me in the eyes and, lifting up by chin gently, you told me you believed me, softly brushing a stray curl from my forehead.

For one night I felt peace and I fell asleep in your arms. But the foundations were weak, unstable by the poor concrete forged in deceit, and by the morning the creeping spectre of loathing and guilt found its way back and when I had to make the humiliating trip back to Eddie’s room for the rest of my clothes and my room key, he laughed scornfully when he pushed me against the door, forcing his tongue down my throat and feeling my body react on an instinct long drilled into me. I know I would have gone through with it as well, even after what he did to you and I. I would have let my body go and suffered the consequences if he had wanted me, undressed me and claimed me. But he broke away and laughed instead, half in pity half in mocking at a sick little plaything so easily aroused and with so little self-respect that it would want the man who humiliated it a mere few hours ago. Getting what I deserved, I was kicked out of the room without another thought.

Funnily enough, for a while, it worked. I steadfastly refused to be touched by anyone. But it only fuelled my isolation from others and from the feelings I craved. Loneliness soon caught up with me and after half a season of restraint, I fell to the familiar urge to seduce my new team mate.

Jenson. So sweet and genuine, and for once I had the upper hand over a lover. Such a welcome change from the demanding designs of older less sympathetic tastes. He took a while to persuade, but in my single-minded attempt to win him over I mistook obsession for love and pursued him with unrelenting determination. Someone for me to mould and make adore me, I longed for him to be different, to impress upon him the trials that I had gone through since surrendering myself only earned me scorn and derision.

We didn’t last long, managing to destroy the friendship that we once had by taking for myself a lover I didn’t really want out of what one was a confidant. Once the thrill of the chase had gone, I got bored with the way he would expect me to be all sunshine and bright smiles around him, his irritation with my moodswings would lead to arguments, mainly one-sided because I had no answer for his questions. Even in our calmer moments the way that he couldn’t keep his hands off me, stroking my ego in much needed ways, became less and less of a compensation for the darker moments when I realised the mistake I had made in pursuing him.

Then he left the team and things changed. Found himself a new play-mate and I realised he never really felt for me anyway. Well, not the way I wanted him to. I was just a practice ground before he found someone he could really fall for and even though I wasn’t so blind as not to realise that, the disappointment of yet another rejection was all too real. I should blame myself rather than him.

And now another team mate. I hated him from the start and he hated me. The familiarity was a small comfort. Not passionate hatred but a watered down mutual contempt, I felt confident that for once disdain would not breed lust and a desire to dish out pain and pleasure. However, my relief was short-lived when, being forced to get along by the hierarchy, we got to know each other, discover the true people by the haughty masks. I saw how he would look at me in the later months. He wanted my body, I could see the intention burning in sable eyes but I refused, holding on to my shaking resolve for a season. But like I have said, again I proved not even my strongest conviction could hold firm against tempting lips and wandering hands enticing from me acquiescence.

You would think that I would have learned my lessons well by now …

I feel you move and suddenly still when a sigh leaves my lips, but I don’t stir and you seem content that you haven’t woken me. Faking sleep was the only way I could be with you and just be silent with my thoughts while I decide what I have to say, and when a hand runs through my hair before settling on my back I wish I could see your eyes then I might know what you are thinking. I must be a constant worry to you and for that I’m so sorry. I wish you didn’t have to see me like this, I wish you hadn’t had to see my tears verging on the hysterical, but without your presence I probably would have turned to the mini-bar and censored my thoughts with warm liquor. But you make me think. You give me focus. I need that, but it will all be worthless unless I amass the courage to tell you all of this. Tonight of all nights, it’s a terrible choice when you should be celebrating, when you shouldn’t have to be here comforting me but getting hideously drunk and rowdy with your loving team. I can’t wait though. Now you are here, if I don’t tell you now I never shall and this will eat away at me. I just wish I knew how you’ll react. Oh god, to lose you would kill me. You have to understand because I need to tell someone. I need help.

I don’t look at you. I want to so that I can see your reaction, gauge your thoughts to tailor my words, but it would only frighten me into silence and I would never finish the task ahead.

So, with a deep breath I open my mouth and start talking.

I talk for what seems like hours until I have nothing left to say.

Though there is one thing that I leave out. Something now so clear to me as you hold me tightly to your chest and a comforting arm rests around my body. I think I knew it those few years ago when you did pretty much the same thing then, cradling me as I sobbed in self-pity and remorse, and perhaps even earlier in the numerous instances you have always been there for me.

There may be sex without love, but worse than that, so much worse is love without sex. Ironic, isn’t it? The only man to hold me so close, to care and love me for what I am is the only one who hasn’t then pushed me against the bed and taken my willingly given body to heights of ecstasy. I need both, I really need both, yet a cruel twist of fate throws me such cruelty and I fear I’m doomed with this separation forever. And I’m not sure I can handle to what realisations these winding thoughts are taking me.

On that thought, I can’t stop the tears beginning to fall down my checks.

And then I wait for your reply.

~To Be Continued.